Marguerite
by Citizen Chauvelin
Summary: An idea I had to show just how badly Marguerite had hurt the two men who loved her.
1. Our Separate Ways

**An idea I had to show just how badly Marguerite had hurt the two men who loved her.**

**Marguerite**

**Our Separate Ways**

She was gone.

He did not have the heart to face it, nor the will to believe it, but it was true. Where once she was there, she was now gone. What had he done, or not done, to lose her, that perfect jewel? His very own piece of heaven was snatched away from him right under his nose, and he could do nothing to stop it, nothing to bring her back. And what had she left him for? An Englishman, an aristocrat, no less, and a very rich one at that.

Chauvelin leaned his head against the window of his office, staring blankly out into the square where the guillotine stood tall, surrounded by an angry mob that seemed ready to rip the victim apart if the National Razor did not do so soon. He was usually thrilled to see justice done, to witness his enemies cut down to nothing, the death of each one giving more freedom to the people, more weight to the Republic, but today, they had done nothing for him at all; just another spectacle of just another day. No, not _just_ another day; today he did not have _her_…

Why? How had that happened? He had never seen it coming, noticed no signs that their relationship was falling apart. It had been a dream, beautiful, perfect, just like the woman he shared it with. She was young, he a good deal older, but they shared the same vision, the same fire, the same hope for a new, better world that he – _they_ – were working side by side to create. How could she leave him? Leave him and abandon the dream, the country, the ideals that had become a reality. And for what? She turned her back on everything they had worked so hard to create for the enemy, an aristocrat, one of the very people that she herself had once claimed to hate, and that he was English made it no better.

He should have noticed that something was wrong when the lovely thing began to become distracted about six weeks ago, should have taken note of the way she now swooned and sighed whilst staring out at nothing, things she would only do for him before. He should have seen the light, that glorious sparkle of light in her eyes grow distant as she slowly became so. But how could he have noticed those small signs when she would still throw herself in his arms whenever she did see him. He could not have, not when she would still hold him, not when she would still kiss him, and certainly not when she would still let him take her to his bed.

Of course, all of that was becoming less frequent as the revolution progressed and Chauvelin was needed to help guide its course. And the lovely thing that was once his began to see less and less of him, hold on to him desperately when she did see him for fear that she would lose him. But Chauvelin did not see it, could not hear her desperate pleading and calling for attention that she so badly needed, not when the shouts and cries for freedom rang through the air and deafened him to her.

It should have come as no surprise to him when he had found her in her salon, sighing over a letter that she had received from some admirer, or when she refused his company when he had finally found the time, for she had a prior engagement. It had merely confused him, hurt him a bit, perhaps, but he hadn't really taken it to be anything serious, had not noticed it as the tell-tale sign that it was. But how could he have been? He was simply too blinded by love for her to see a change in her disposition, to notice that something was amiss, or to gather that she had found someone else.

Of course, he had never really said that he loved her, he had just assumed that something like that was far better said silently, that words as weak as those put the feelings he had for her to shame. He had thought that the look of unparalleled admiration that his gold eyes held whenever he gazed upon her lovely form was enough to convey that she meant the world to him. Apparently, that was not the case. Apparently, she needed to hear it as well. Apparently, she had found someone that would say it. And it was not Chauvelin.

It was but a few days ago that he had seen her kissing another man, and it came as such a shock to him that he had forgotten to breathe, forgotten to feel anything at all but the piercing pain in his chest where he was certain that something had died. The rest of that day had been intolerable as he could not think, could not sit still, could hardly function at all. The bitter loneliness and desperation that held him quickly dissolved into fury, and he had left the office long before he was due to and stormed into her salon, the lovely woman noticeably absent, no doubt still with the man that he had seen her with earlier.

Against his better judgement, he had searched through her drawers, looked through everything she owned to find a nearly sickening amount of love letters amongst her possessions, all signed in the same hand by a certain Sir Percy. He had read them all several times, allowing each work to strike through him and make him hurt all the more and making the fire within him grow all the more fierce.

By the time the softly, happily humming girl entered, Chauvelin had worked himself into a rage that he had never felt in his entire life, and he had instantly pounced upon the girl, firmly and fiercely demanding answers. He had hardly given her time to respond to the harshly accusing questions of how long she had been playing two men, how long before she had the decency to tell him so, how she could leave him, how she could possibly want another after he had been so damn loyal to her for all that time.

It was then she had told him that she was to marry the Englishman that very week, and she was to leave France for England on the morrow, and Chauvelin could not speak. It was really over. And suddenly then with the power of hindsight did he manage to see how obvious the signs were, how clear it had been that she would leave him, how blatant it was that he was losing her. And she would have never told him. One day, she would have just been gone, and he would have been left in a desperate panic, frantically searching for his love and wondering where she had gone without the faintest clue as to anything. At least this way, he knew that he had lost…

Without a thought as to what he was doing, he seized her and firmly kissed her, only to be pushed away. He had told her that he loved her then, desperate, bitter tears at the corners of his eyes, and for a moment he had thought that he had seen love in those beautiful eyes of hers, a sudden longing and yearning to be with him. But just when he thought that she may rush into his arms, she had turned away from him, whispered that she did not feel the same, that she never had, and ordered him out with the wish that he would not disturb her again. It was over...

He was stunned, his entire world shattered, for he had so surely thought that his confession of how he felt for her was all she wanted, was all that was needed to turn her away from her hasty decision to marry. But no, that was clearly not the case; he had truly lost. The hopelessness turned to rage, and that rage fuelled his decision to manipulate the woman into getting what he wanted. He had threatened to tell her future husband of her relationship with him and he noticed in malicious glee how her eyes widened in fear; for surely this Sir Percy did not know of him, as the clever little woman had kept even her lover in the dark about the little double game that she had been playing. She got on her knees and begged, pleaded that he say nothing, for she would do anything.

His request that she stop this silly game of marriage of hers was met with a look of scorn and contempt, and the quick refute that she would rather Percy know than not marry the baronet, which only fuelled his rage all the more. His keen mind running with ideas, he had slyly demanded the location of the Marquis de St. Cyr and his family, for the woman knew all too well where they were and was intent on keeping the family out of the revolution's path, if for only to save the lives of the wife and children, for she had no love of them. She had looked at him in disbelief, but his returned gaze of utter seriousness made her see the firmness of his resolve. She softly answered with promise that she would have their denunciation for him tomorrow, provided that the family not be harmed. And he gave her his word and left.

The next day, Chauvelin had closed down the theater where Marguerite worked in the middle of her final performance before she was off to England. He had met with her and mercilessly tormented the woman, gently reminding her that they had some unfinished business and she had handed him the note, and gently told him that she hated him and wished to never see him again. He had, of course, brushed this off, and he was off immediately to arrest the family, and every last St. Cyr was executed that very afternoon.

It was only then, as he sat by that window, that he realized that she was really gone, out of his life forever. Well, maybe not forever, but she was gone, and that was shocking. He had never thought it could happen, as they went together so well, had loved each other so much, and it was beastly unfair that she should be stolen from him like that. And she hated him, oh God, she hated him…

But, oh, how he loved her. His entire body ached, and he leaned his head against the cold glass, breathing unsteady and ragged. Yes, he loved her, but perhaps too little, and perhaps too late, and even telling her so made no difference at all, and now that she was gone, there was nothing he could do to ease the pain that he so deeply felt. Tensing, he choked as bitter tears fell onto the windowpane, and he sat alone in his misery, just as he would remain for as long as he lived.

_And every face is bittersweet when every face is Marguerite._


	2. Prayer

**An idea I had to show just how badly Marguerite had hurt the two men who loved her.**

**Marguerite**

**Prayer**

The moment he saw her, he loved her. End of story, there was no more to it, he had to have her, no matter the cost. She was stunning, to say the least; a child of flame and passion, so much like his own. It was as if they had been created from the very same soul, that they were meant for each other, and Percy Blakeney knew that he could have no other woman. It was either this one or none at all.

He had instantly set on romancing the innocent young thing, and she was so very receptive to his attentions. Of course, she had been a bit reluctant at first to actually think of him as a suitor, but then she had every reason to be; he was quite a bit older, spoke a whole different language, and lived so very far away from the land that she loved and called home. And, of course, he was an aristocrat, which was a very dangerous thing to be in those times in that country, and it was just as dangerous to be associated with one.

But alas, he still sent her copious amounts of flowers, and he still delivered notes, letters and poems in which he had tried to scribble all of his heart's affections for her, but words failed him time and time again. He had never been contented by how far his messages struck from what he actually felt for the woman, but the pretty thing was more than delighted to receive them and would greet him with a tight embrace and a kiss on the cheek after she had read one of the many that he had sent in those first weeks, and his heart would fly because of it.

And then she had begun to love him. Imagine, a witty little actress, the cleverest woman in all of Europe, in love with him, the greatest fool in all of England! It was thrilling, intoxicating, far too wonderful to imagine. They were nearly inseparable, the star of the Paris stage and the richest man in all England. He made certain that he did not miss a single performance of hers, and had spoken to the manager of the theatre, ensuring that he would have the best seats every night. He had contacted the finest florists in France and paid them well to deliver the rarest and most beautiful bouquets to her dressing room after every performance. He and the lovely mademoiselle would dine together, take picnics in the gardens, just walk along the lovely paths within the parks inside or near the city, and he would always be sure to walk the lovely woman home at an appropriate time, kiss her farewell and bid her good evening and good bye until tomorrow.

It was a whirlwind of a romance, but a wonderful one. There was nothing that stood between them, nothing at all, and Percy felt he had no choice to show the world that he and his lovely actress were meant to be together, that they were one soul inhabiting two bodies, and one could not have lived without the other. He was complete with her, and was empty, half a man, nearly dead without her in his presence, and the longing that took him to be beside her when he was not was beastly intolerable. No, this woman and himself needed to be together for the rest of their lives, and Percy would make damned sure that it was so.

After a mere six weeks, he could no longer take those long hours of the night when he was away from her. He was sure he sounded like a fool and he watched as his hands trembled with dreaded anticipation as he slid the ring upon her finger and asked her to be his wife. But heaven had ordained that they were a match befitting the angels, and she had flung herself into his arms and kissed him, crying tears of joy as she eagerly accepted. Never was there a night quite as wonderful as that one.

Two days later, they were off to England to be married, to be joined forever, and Percy could not be happier. All those years he had waited for a woman to look beyond whatever inane game he played with the world and see and love him for who he was had suddenly become more than worth the while. She was his, and the entire thing, their meeting, the time they had spent together in Paris, and their quickly nearing marriage was a wonderful, perfect dream, and Percy had wondered what he had done so right to receive such a blessing.

It was on their wedding night that Sir Percy Blakeney, baronet, awoke from that dream. He could not believe it at first when his good friend Tony Dewhurst handed him the note that denounced his close associate St. Cry and his family and sent the lot to the guillotine. It simply couldn't be that his own wife had been the case of the death of that entire family, not just the Marquis, but his wife and three children as well, the eldest being no more than twelve years of age. He recognized the handwriting, the dainty little signature each slope and curve of the ink was no doubt his wife's hand. And the elegant scrawl written over it, plainly stating, "Thank you for your help, my dear" did nothing to help his wife's innocence.

The baronet did not believe it so much, that he had argued against Tony, had scoffed at him, called him a fool, for there was no way that this could have belonged to his wife, the angel. The other hand, signed by the Citizen Chauvelin – that dark, sinister man from the theatre – he hadn't spoken to the girl, had he? No, it couldn't have been her, and the note must have been delivered to the wrong address…

He said he would prove it so, that his wife was innocent as a newborn babe, and sent Jessup to deliver the note to the pretty thing, and told Tony but to watch close, for she would not have the faintest idea as to what it was.

He could only stare in shock, mouth agape, a sharp pain in his chest when his wife had accepted the letter, calling it a congratulatory note from a friend on her wedding when asked of it. His entire world shattered before his eyes when suddenly the woman he had so thought he knew was stained with blood. An actress indeed, to have fooled him as such, to have made him believe that she was good, innocent, and if he had been fooled about that, there was no telling what other things the cunning woman had hidden from his sight. Where was she? Where had the woman that he had fallen in love with gone? She had suddenly vanished, and this woman…

He did not know her.

Oh God, he was a fool, to have been so deceived. He was so utterly stunned, so shocked, so numb, that when she came to him, he had put on the mask that he put on for the rest of England and had sent her away. She looked at him, nearly as shocked as he had been, asked him in her so typical innocent fashion what was wrong, an Percy almost forgot her sin, nearly took her into his arms and carried her up the stairs to his bedroom…. But the woman was not to be trusted. She couldn't be, not after this…

With the greatest amount of effort, he had turned her away yet again, muttering some foolishness as an excuse that he could not recall a second later. So much for his so hopeful happy marriage and all the joy that he had felt in those past few weeks…

And it was here he now stood out in the gardens of his estate, completely numb and emotionless. Everything inside of him had suddenly died as the woman that he had married was suddenly gone, no longer the woman he knew. But mark him, he still loved her with all his heart, and that was perhaps the greatest tragedy of it all. Why now, God, of all times to destroy his very being, why on this day, which should have been the most splendid of his life.

He was suddenly struck with such a pain in his chest that he doubled over, gasping for breath. The numbness that he previously felt quickly receded as he acutely felt his heart and soul die within his body as his mind turned over the harsh fact that his wife had killed, had lied to him, had held secrets from him, and could not be trusted. Where was the faith, that holy trust that should have existed between them? How could they have been so different, and how could he have been so deceived?

Bitter tears hung in his eyes as he watched the receding figure of his wife play out in his mind, slowly drifting away form him, no matter how he chased her. Let her deeds go uncared for, he wanted her, he loved her, and he would surely die without her! But to be with her and continue to be deceived by this actress, that could not be done.

No, no matter how much he longed for her, she simply could not be trusted, and as much as it hurt to have to let her go, he did not think he could survive another blow like this one. Let him live by her, but let him never trust the woman again. He would have to keep his distance, be sure to never hold her as he used to, never to pay her heed as he once did, for that would only pull him into her again, and she may well deceive him as she had done tonight yet again.

But he still loved her more than his own life. It would be such a trial to be so close to her and be unable to show how much he cared, but lest he endanger placing his faith in her again, it could not be done.

What a woman she was, to so easily abuse his absolute faith, to keep secrets while he bared his soul to her. But he supposed that it was the very nature of an actress, to wear a different mask for each person she met, to never show her true self, and being the fool that he was, he had believed that he had seen her true face, that she would show it only to him, that there ware no secrets between them, no lies, no hidden lives…

So be it. If that were the way she would play the game, then he may as well play. Let her have her hidden lives, her secrets, for he too would have his. He would find a way to endure the pain, if by nothing else, but revelling in the hope that one day he may love her again.

_This vision who was not quite real…_


End file.
